And After
by Alyssa2
Summary: Fakir and Ahiru: glimpses in the denouement.


_Once upon a time, there was a story. It was a good story, with a knight and princesses and a perfect prince, and it was also a tragic story, with an ending that left everyone in pain. But the characters in the story did not want a tragedy, and refused their fate. And so, against the storyteller's wishes, they lived happily ever after._

-

It's not so bad now, being a duck.

It's certainly calmer, now. There's no more need of Princess Tutu, no danger to struggle and save Mytho from. There is no dance against destiny, and little to fear in this quiet town, now. The only ravens that come around anymore are more interested in scraps than hearts, cocking their black eyes at Ahiru with nothing more than animal curiosity.

(The first sight of black feathers still sends a shiver through her despite this; but it gets better, as time goes on.)

There are still things that Ahiru misses, sometimes so much that she feels pierced with the prince's sword. She misses being able to feed the birds - the _other_ birds - in the morning, her loft room full of fluttering wings and song. She misses her loud and incorrigible friends, her Pique and Lilie. She misses dancing, at least in a body that could try to be graceful, could someday aspire to be beautiful - and was, sometimes. She still wakes up with a startled quack when the church bells peal out the morning hour, bursting out of bed and flapping wildly around the room to search for her uniform, she must hurry, hurry, hurry or Neko-sensei will marry her this time for sure -- until Fakir finally groans, and says, "Idiot," and catches her in his hands. And then she just feels silly, and guilty for waking him up so early because he so often sits up late, and she turns her head to face him plaintively.

"Idiot," he says again, but softly, and curls his arms around her, and then it's not so bad.

-

Fakir is always writing, now. Something in him has calmed; the thing that was tight and wound-up and painful, injured but too proud and too afraid to show its wounds, has gone to sleep and healed. His eyes are always gentle, now, and seeing him like that, Ahiru begins to understand just how much pain he carried with him, every day. She's glad, very glad to see so much of it gone.

He starts writing at breakfast. She can tell how enthusiastic he is about a given story by the time it takes him to start; for his favorites, she's seen him cooking with one hand even as his pen scratches at the paper. He has an uncanny knack, also, of knowing exactly what it is Ahiru is hungry for, bread or fish or bits of fruit, and exactly how much of it she wants; he knows and he provides, magnificently. Ahiru is a spoiled little duck indeed.

Sometimes he lets her watch, and then they can sit together for hours, him writing and her reading. She watches avidly as the stories - and they're such nice ones, her Fakir's stories - unfold on the paper, and he gently strokes her feathers with ink-stained fingers, and she's happy after all.

-

The thing Ahiru misses most, more than school, more than dancing, is being able to talk to Fakir. She listens to the things he and Charon talk about, and thinks wistfully of what it would be like to talk with Fakir again, about meaningless things like that. Not the things on which balanced many fates, but the things that filled up lives, and made those fates worth changing.

But she is just an ordinary duck, and she has no words to give him, and no dance he does not already understand. And so, though she is with Fakir every day, sometimes the loneliness is almost too much for her little heart to bear.

One day, however, Fakir leaves a manuscript out carelessly, and the act is so unlike him that Ahiru worries, and goes to collect the pages in her bill to bring to him. Perhaps he's ill and needs to be reminded how hard he's been working so he knows to rest, perhaps it was just that his mind wandered and he forgot--

_--words on the page caught the duck's eye as she gathered up the papers,_ said the manuscript.

Ahiru guiltily pulls the pages together once more. It's good paper that Fakir uses, and it wouldn't do to let it be scattered all over just because she read something surprising. Hoping her outburst hasn't disturbed anyone, she shuffles the paper back into order and looks back to the last page that had been written on.

_--regained her composure. Then, reading the manuscript left for her, the duck could see the words unsaid. Through this page, the knight who cast away his sword said to her: _

_"I can hear you."_

The page is empty after that. And that, probably, is a good thing because Ahiru's tears would have quite ruined the words, her little heart full and fit to burst.

-

Drosselmeyer's story is over. This they know, without a doubt. But there are traces, yet.

Fakir keeps himself modest around her, but she has seen him coming out of the bath, bare to the waist; and the scars on his chest are just the same as ever, the scars of the knight from the story. The story that was ended, that should be over, but is carved on his body still.

As for herself, Ahiru is increasingly sure she's _not_ such an ordinary duck, after all. The thought first comes to her as she slowly drowses off under Fakir's gentle fingers, fighting off sleep to read just a few more words of his story, just a few... and suddenly she wonders, _Could I _read _before I was a girl?_

And as days become weeks and drift into months, she is still small, her feathers still plain yellow and all fluff. This does not strike her as strange until one day, when she trots down to the lake for a swim; the lake is full of ducks, full of familiar scents, ducklings she remembers from her own early days.

Except for the fact, which slowly dawns on her, that there are no ducklings there. All the ones she knows are sleek and white.

Fakir doesn't say anything when she comes back, but he knows to pick her up and hold her as she reels, stunned and baffled, quacking softly to herself in confusion.

She is a duck. But she is a duck who thinks like a girl, reads like a girl, loves like a girl, and - it seems - ages like a girl.

The most important stories never really let go.

-

One day, Fakir begins shutting himself in his most private writing nook and denying anyone entry, even Ahiru. After the third time he does this, she quacks incessantly at the door until finally he opens it again; he catches her, quick as a cat, as she tries to slip through his legs and into the room.

"QUACK," she says indignantly, as he holds her up.

"Look," he says, staring her seriously in the eye, "I'm not just shutting you out for fun. I need to write this one alone."

"Quack," she says, only slightly mollified.

"You'll just have to wait until the end to read," he says, and his eyes are soft again. "But I am going to let you read it, Ahiru."

And then, of course, she just can't be annoyed with him any more, so she closes her eyes and nuzzles his hand, and there's a smile on his face as he puts her down again. After that, she leaves him to the closed room, and looks forward to the day the story is finished.

But the wait stretches long, becoming oppressive. Fakir comes to all but drag himself out of his nook, sweating and exhausted, after sealing himself inside all day. The atmosphere in the house becomes stifling; Charon begins to worry, tries to get Fakir to eat more, sleep more, write less if he must - but Fakir goes stiff all over whenever he says that, and the look on his face brooks no argument.

Ahiru, herself, grows more uncomfortable each day. Fakir has put himself beyond her reach, and though she understands that the task of his writing is important, it frustrates her that he must set himself so apart to do it. She misses him, even though he does not leave the house, even though she curls in the crook of his arm at night. This, and Charon's worry, and the air of tension in the house like the air before a heavy storm, all these things build up in her and she feels like she is going to break out of her skin.

And then, just to make matters worse, one night she begins to itch, her feathers falling out in clumps, and doesn't it just figure that this would be the time she finally begins to molt? Fakir, his arm heavy with weariness, reaches out to console her, but all she can do is peck irritably at his hand and retire to a corner, miserable and picking at her feathers. She falls to a fitful sleep, squirming and itching, and comforts herself with the thought that at least now she'll finally grow that lovely white plumage she's been waiting for.

-

When Ahiru wakes up, she is cold, curled in on herself, and sore to her bones, and none of that makes sense.

She comes back to consciousness slowly, struggling to understand the strange position she seems to be in, the reason for her naked skin, the fall of red hair in her eyes. She brushes it away impatiently with her hand, wrinkling her nose--

Ahiru holds her hand in front of her face and stares.

There is a rustling beside her, and she turns, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. Fakir is already awake, conjuring a package from some hidden corner; he tears the paper away as Ahiru watches, stunned, and reveals a white dress.

(Did he write that here, or did he bring it with his own hands knowing it would be needed, or was it a little of both?)

"Fakir," she whispers, her human mouth strange to her in these first minutes. "You wrote--?"

He doesn't look, his face a little red as he holds out the dress to her. "Hurry and put it on, will you?"

She doesn't hurry, or put it on. What she does is uncurl, and fling her arms about him, crying his name in wild, unthinking joy. She is naked and she doesn't care, she doesn't care, she cannot wait one more second to show her thanks for this gift, this sublime and perfect gift. Fakir is rigid in her arms, his face hot; but eventually, as though sensing he simply will not get away easily, he wraps his arms around her as well, and holds her close.

It is not so bad to be a duck. But for her, it is best to be a girl.


End file.
